


Questions to a Broken Soul

by CassiCat, KatiaSwift



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Dark, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Holocaust, M/M, Poetry, So much angst, and me torturing the characters again, so Erik is really not okay here, warning for absolute heartbreak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1701869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassiCat/pseuds/CassiCat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatiaSwift/pseuds/KatiaSwift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never believed in happiness.</p><p>He was right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Questions to a Broken Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the beautiful poem included in this story, which was written by the lovely [CassiCat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CassiCat). She sent, I wrote angst. 
> 
> The title of this story comes from the title of the poem.
> 
> I can honestly say it's not the best, because it was written in a very short amount of time by a sleep-deprived person (me, yay), but I certainly had fun with it.
> 
> Enjoy!

_From the moment I meet you, I know_

_Your darkened eyes and hate-fueled rage_

_The white, shining good you don’t let show_

_That you so refuse to release from its cage_

 

The only thing that feels good to him is anger.

Where terror and pain and utter, broken sadness had failed him, anger prevailed. Every burst of rage freed him, just a little bit more, from the hell that was his world.

It has become his anchor.

He is told, now, that there is good in him. That he is strong and good and magnificent.

He is scared of being good. He is scared of the pain that being good will undoubtedly bring. There is no real good in the world. Just anger. Hate. Pain. Fear.

Happiness is not something he remembers knowing.

He likes it that way.

 

_What is it that scarred you so deep?_

_That made you lock your heart away_

_That makes you impossible to keep_

_That makes it hurt you just to stay_

 

He is tiny. Broken.

He has lost too much. Living is too agonizing. Each breath is a hardship. He has to force himself to put one foot in front of another.

Sometimes he wonders why he keeps going at all, when everything he knows now is pain and Schmidt’s leering face. He doesn’t know if his mother still lives. He doesn’t know what he would do if she doesn’t.

He endures. He stands still and lets himself be ripped away.

He doesn’t know that it could be any other way.

Eighteen years later, wrapped in the warm, loving arms of someone who cares, he still doesn’t know.

Maybe he never will.

 

_Who has hurt you, oh my dear?_

_Twisted and remade you into a soulless shell_

_What is it that fills your dreams with fear?_

_That won’t allow you to again be well_

 

He doesn’t sleep at night. He never has.

Schmidt’s face bearing over him takes up the space behind his eyes. The laughter. The jokes. The smiles that are burned into his memory until the end of time. The sound of the metal screeching all around him, on him, _in_ him, that he reaches out for and can never control. It’s that, perhaps, that hurts him worst of all. All he ever had to do was move the coin. He could have stopped it. He could have kept her close. He could have put the coin through Schmidt’s brain and pulled his people away, leading them to safety and freedom and a better life.

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

He failed.

He has often considered ending his broken, miserable life, just to get rid of the images. To make the images go away, to make Schmidt leave him alone. Once and for all.

He can’t end himself. He can’t risk the memories following him to hell.

It would be too much, even for him. And there’s no way out of death.

 

_Do you think I can possibly heal you?_

_Will you ever believe my love is true?_

 

No.

No, Charles.


End file.
